Beckett
The plane touched down on the runway almost five hours later, waking me up from a deep slumber. I didn’t even feel the crash coming, but as soon as the plane took off, I was out.
“Thank you for flying with us today. Please grab all your belongings before leaving, and we hope you fly with us again,” the captain says over the PA system.
And yes, I watched her ass sway side to side as she walked away.
Entering through the gate terminal, I realized I had not thought this much through. Normally, a car service takes me wherever I need to go, and my agent arranges it.
My hand starts to shake—something that happens when I am starting to feel out of control. Grabbing my phone quickly, I turn off Do Not Disturb and open my Uber app to arrange a pickup.
“Deep breaths, King,” I tell myself. “You are okay. This is just a hiccup.”
My eyes instinctively roll when all the messages from Sarah, my agent, come through.
“Let’s ignore those for now,” I whisper to myself, swiping them away.
Continuing my search for an Uber, I am starting to get overstimulated.
Between the already heightened anxiety I am feeling, the different conversations going on around me, the loud noises of the airport, and having to do all of this by myself, I need to get out of here if I don’t want my anger to take over.
That normally happens when my anxiety blows up—anger spills out.
“Thirty minutes?” I huff walking toward the front of the Atlanta, Georgia, airport and take a seat at one of the vacant chairs, reminding myself to breathe in through my nose and out my mouth to steady my heart rate.
“Guess it’ll have to do.” I schedule my lift and pull up hotels near Scars Creek Ranch.
The small town of Honeysuckle, Georgia, is home to many notorious horse and cattle ranchers.
Some breed horses and cattle that ship all over the West. Not many places for tourists to stay.
When I used to live there, there was only one hotel, and it was a run-down, druggy place.
I know because that’s the place where my parents bought from their dealer.
And I will be damned if I step foot in it again.
Unfortunately, it looks like it’s still the only hotel around.
Pulling up my Airbnb app, I hope some of the ranchers still rent out some of their property to visitors.
Scars Creek Ranch Cottage is the first thing to pop up and it’s available.
Well, I’ll be.
The same cottage Mr. and Mrs. Taylor would let me stay in when I needed a night away from home—or a week.
The same cottage that Carson and I would throw parties in and drink our demons away.
Also, the same cottage I lost my virginity in.
I don’t even look at the nightly price because I don’t care—I have enough money to cover anything, anywhere.
Oh, Carson Taylor is going to be thrilled to see me.
A text from the same unknown number comes through as soon as my confirmation number for my rental gets sent to me.
Not sure if you got my last message. If you are coming to the funeral, I would like you to also come to this location at this time.
I read over the date, time, and address, my brow furrows.
Yes, I am coming. I reply. Who is this?
The text back comes through the moment my Uber arrives.
If you come to the address above, we will meet then. Please make it a point to be there.
I huff; this person better not be fucking with me. I am already at my mental load just from coming back.